by James Swain
“We need to be careful,” Gerry said.
“For Christ’s sake, you think we’re going to get gunned down, going into a bar in broad daylight?” Vinny asked.
Gerry stared at the curving highway. There was a break in the traffic, and he hit the gas, thinking that Vinny didn’t know Las Vegas the way he knew Las Vegas. He’d grown up hearing stories from his father. Las Vegas had more scumbags than any city in America. Anything could happen here, and often did.
“Yes,” Gerry said.
The endless flow of money that was Las Vegas’s lifeblood did not stray far from the casinos, and the Voodoo Lounge looked like a desert outpost, the sandblasted paint job suggesting a long-forgotten Mexican theme. They got out of the rental and went inside.
The lounge was a low-ceilinged fire trap, with posters of bikini-clad women supplied by beer companies covering the walls. There was a pool table with purple felt, some tables, and a silent jukebox. A barrel-chested bartender stood by the cash register, polishing a glass. His only customer, a construction worker at the far end of the bar, was drinking a beer while staring at the hypnotic curls of smoke coming off his cigarette.
Vinny, Frank, and Nunzie took seats at the bar. Gerry looked around before sitting.
“What’s your pleasure?” the bartender asked.
“You have a happy hour?” Nunzie asked.
“We’re always in a good mood,” the bartender said.
“Any house drinks?” Frank asked.
“Ass juice.”
“What’s that?”
“Try one and find out,” the bartender said.
Gerry turned in his seat, and stared at the front door. There was something not right about the place, only he couldn’t put his finger on it. After a few moments of thinking, he realized what it was. No wheelchair access. He nudged Vinny with his elbow.
“This is a setup,” Gerry said.
Vinny stiffened. “Why are you so paranoid?”
“Jinky isn’t coming here.”
“Why not?”
“He can’t get his wheelchair through the fricking door.”
Vinny looked over his shoulder at the front door. “You think it’s an ambush?”
“I sure do,” Gerry said.
Gerry felt the gentle pulsation of his cell phone against his leg. He pulled the phone from his pocket, and stared at the text message: SON. YOUR LIFE IS IN DANGER. BE CAREFUL! POP. He showed the message to Vinny.
“My father feels the same way,” he said.
The most important aspect of a fight was the element of surprise. Whoever got the jump on his opponent usually won. Gerry ordered a draft, and as the bartender poured it, he jumped clean over the bar. At the same time, Vinny leaned over the bar, and grabbed the bartender by the wrists.
The bartender’s .38 Magnum was in a leather holster wedged between two perspiring coolers. Gerry drew the gun, and alternated pointing it at the construction worker and the bartender. Both men stared at him without a trace of fear in their eyes.
“All my money’s lying on the bar,” the construction worker said.
“Mine’s in the till,” the bartender said.
“Lift up your shirts, and show me what you’re carrying,” Gerry said.
Both men complied. The construction worker’s stomach was flat and white, the bartender’s round and hairy. Neither man was carrying any heat. Gerry made them drop their shirts, and pointed at the front door with the Magnum.
“Any idea who’s about to come through that door?”
The bartender had broken out in a wicked sweat. He shook his head.
“The mailman?” the construction worker asked.
Gerry looked at the bartender. “You know.”
“No, I don’t,” the bartender said.
“You’re lying.”
“I swear to God, I’m not.”
The bar’s front door banged open. Sunlight flooded the room, and a hooded man wearing a bulletproof vest and carrying a shotgun came in. The hooded man hesitated, letting his eyes adjust. Although Gerry had been a bookie most of his life, he still went to church. He liked to think that God—in His infinite wisdom—watched over him. Like now, for instance. He was holding the most powerful handgun in the world, and had it pointed directly at the door. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger, and he wouldn’t end up playing a harp.
He pumped two bullets into the hooded man’s vest. The man flew backward like he had strings attached to him, the shotgun discharging into the ceiling and making the whole building shake. Gerry kept firing, and sent the man into the parking lot.
A getaway car was parked outside. The hooded man fell backward through the open passenger door, his face exposed to the sun. Gerry stared at his face, and realized it was the guy he’d seen in the hospital stairwell the night of Jack Donovan’s murder. The getaway car sped away before he could squeeze off another round.
A stiff wind shut the front door, and the lounge fell quiet. Vinny, Nunzie, and Frank were frozen to their spots and looked like they’d seen a ghost. Gerry looked at the bartender, who appeared ready to cry.
“You were saying?” Gerry said.
The bartender fell to his knees, sobbing like he expected to die.
“Please don’t kill me,” he said.
“You work for Jinky Harris, don’t you?” Gerry said.
“Never heard of him,” the bartender said.
Gerry glanced down the bar at the construction worker, whose face still didn’t show any emotion. Gerry wanted to believe the construction worker wasn’t part of the plot to kill them, but his gut told him otherwise. The guy had a role. Maybe it was to drag their bodies away or bury them in the desert. Or something else.
Gerry led the construction worker and the bartender to the back room, and locked them in a broom closet. He told them to wait ten minutes before kicking the door down. Then he and Vinny searched the place, while Nunzie and Frank guarded the front door.
Beneath the bar Gerry found a stack of papers with World Poker Showdown printed across the top of each page. He leafed through them, and saw the names of every player in the tournament, along with their odds of winning. Skip DeMarco’s odds were highlighted, and were 40 to 1. It was an angle Gerry hadn’t considered. Anyone who bet on DeMarco to win would make a killing. He stuck the papers under his arm.
“Let’s get out of this toilet,” he said.
They went outside to the parking lot. The wind off the desert had picked up, and invisible particles of sand stung their faces. Vinny stuck his hand out, and asked Gerry for the keys to the rental.
“Let me drive,” Vinny said.
Each time they’d worked together, Gerry had done the driving while Vinny rode in the passenger seat, and called the shots. Now Vinny was acknowledging that a shift had occurred. Gerry hadn’t just saved their lives; he’d also taken charge.
“You sure?” Gerry asked him.
“Positive, man. Hand them over.”
Gerry looked at Nunzie and Frank to make sure they were cool with what was happening. Both men dipped their chins, acknowledging they were okay with the change in leadership. Only then did Gerry take the car keys from his pocket, and drop them in Vinny’s outstretched hand.
21
If there is any electronic device that casinos hate, it is the cell phone. Card counters, shuffle trackers, roulette cheaters, and other sophisticated scammers can use cell phones to transmit information and give themselves an unbeatable edge at different casino games. As a result, their use is banned from every casino in Las Vegas.
Valentine was crossing Celebrity’s casino when his cell phone rang. Thirty minutes had passed since he’d contacted Gerry to tell him his life was in danger, and they’d been thirty of the longest minutes of his life. As he flipped the phone open, a hand came down squarely on his shoulder.
“Cell phones are not permitted inside the casino,” a security guard said.
“It’s an emergency.”
“I’m sure it is. Please take the call ov
er there.”
He followed the direction of the guard’s finger, and crossed the casino to the front lobby with its screeching exotic birds. By now his cell phone had gone quiet, and the message icon was flashing on its face. He retrieved the message, and heard his son’s exuberant voice. The lobby noise was intense, and he pushed the volume control on high.
“Hey, Pop, it’s me. I don’t know how you knew my life was in danger, but your call saved my life.”
Valentine felt the air trapped in his lungs escape. His son was okay.
“I’m sure you’re pissed off that I didn’t tell you I was coming to Las Vegas, but I decided I had to find Jack Donovan’s killers,” his son went on. “You know what you’re always telling me about following my heart? Well, my heart told me to do this, so here I am. I hope you can find it in you to forgive me for disobeying you.
“I’ll call you later tonight. Maybe we can hook up. I’ve got some dirt on cheating that’s going on at ring games at the World Poker Showdown that I thought you’d like to hear. Oh, and Pop?—”
“What?” Valentine said without thinking.
“—Thanks for the save.”
He erased the message. He and Gerry hadn’t seen eye-to-eye since Gerry had been a teenager. After his wife had died, they’d tried to get back on neutral ground. Although the relationship wasn’t perfect, Gerry was getting better at explaining himself, and he was getting better at listening. As he shut the cell phone, a yellow-headed parrot in a nearby cage began to flap its wings.
“Thanks for the save, thanks for the save,” the bird screeched.
Taking the elevator upstairs, Valentine found himself thinking about his dinner with Gloria Curtis. He wanted to make a good impression, and wished Mabel were around to suggest what clothes he should wear. Not that he had much in the way of a wardrobe, but Mabel’s help would quell the tiny butterflies dancing in his stomach. As he entered his room, he saw the red light on his phone flashing. He picked up the message.
“Hey, Tony,” Rufus Steele’s voice rang out. “I’m in a jam and need your help. Would you mind coming down to my room? Thanks, pardner.”
He glanced at his watch. He had a few hours to kill before dinner, and guessed he could get Rufus to help him pick out his clothes. It wasn’t that Rufus was a great dresser either, but he needed another opinion to get his nerves calmed down. He took the elevator down to Rufus’s floor. The old cowboy answered the door on the first knock.
“Hey, Tony. Sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a real problem here.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Come inside and see for yourself.”
He entered the room expecting the worst, and was not disappointed. Everything was gone—the double bed, the night table, the couch, and the two chairs by the window they’d sat in earlier. Even the wall hangings and clock were gone. The place had been stripped clean, with Rufus’s clothes left in a sloppy pile in the room’s center.
“Who did this?” Valentine asked.
“The hotel,” Rufus said. “They really want me out of here.”
“Did they take any of your personal belongings?”
“No, they left those.”
“What about the twenty grand you won?”
“That’s in the vault behind the front desk,” Rufus said.
“Did you go downstairs and lodge a complaint?” Valentine asked.
“Sure did. They acted real concerned. Guy at the front desk said someone would be sent up to ‘look into things.’ That was an hour ago. That’s the thing I hate about this town. People will piss on your leg while swearing to you it’s raining.”
“How can I help?” Valentine asked.
The old cowboy removed his hat, and held it in front of his chest. “I hate to impose upon you, but I’m too old to be sleeping on the floor. I’d be forever grateful if you’d let me park these tired old bones on your couch.”
Having a roommate during an investigation was never a good idea. But Rufus had his pluses. He’d been the first to nail DeMarco for a cheat, and knew as much about playing poker as anyone alive. Valentine pointed at the pile of clothes on the floor.
“Let me help you with those,” he said.
They stowed Rufus’s clothes in the closet of Valentine’s room, his shaving kit beneath the sink. Rufus was testing the softness of the couch when Valentine approached him.
“I need a favor,” Valentine said. “I’m having dinner with a woman tonight, and was going to buy a shirt down in the men’s shop. I was thinking of blue.”
Rufus threw his legs up onto the couch, and stretched out luxuriously. The couch was not long enough for him, and his cowboy boots dangled over the end.
“Light or navy?” he asked.
“Navy.”
He decided the accommodations were to his liking, and brought his feet back to the floor. “Navy’s strong. You seeing that newscaster woman?”
“Yeah, we’re getting together later. Too strong?”
“No, navy’s good, especially with your dark features. How long you known her?”
“We met this morning.”
“Heck, I’m going to start calling you Sir Speedy.”
Valentine laughed under his breath. “She likes hearing about scams.”
Rufus patted the cushion beside him, indicating he wanted Valentine to sit. Valentine accommodated him, and watched the old cowboy remove a pack of Lucky Strikes from his shirt pocket and bang out a smoke.
“Sounds like a match made in heaven. She’s a smoker, isn’t she?”
Valentine nodded. Rufus placed the cigarette between his lips and took out a book of matches. He hesitated before lighting up. “Do you think it’s possible to light a cigarette, take four puffs, but not change the length of the cigarette?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think it’s possible,” Valentine said.
Rufus lit the match, and placed the flame in the center of the cigarette. It quickly caught fire, and he took four puffs without the cigarette shrinking in length. Valentine saw himself having fun with that, showing Gloria over dessert.
“Know any other pearls?” he asked.
“I know hundreds of the damn things,” Rufus said, exhaling two huge plumes of smoke. “Sometimes I think people take me up on them because they enjoy being hornswoggled. Say, do you mind if I help myself to something to drink?”
“Not at all,” Valentine said. “The minibar’s in the corner.”
Rufus went to the minibar and Valentine saw him remove the last Diet Coke. He sat down on the couch and started to twist it open, then stopped.
“Heck, that’s mighty rude of me. You want this?”
“Come to mention it, yes,” Valentine said.
Rufus was still holding the matches, and he tore one from the pack, then handed it and the pack to Valentine. “Light the match, and hold the flame lower than your fingers.”
Valentine lit the match and held the flame below his hand.
“How long do you think you can hold it that way?” Rufus asked.
The flame was racing up the paper match and starting to warm his fingers.
“I don’t know—five seconds?”
“Betcha this soda pop I can hold it for a minute.”
Valentine blew out the match that was starting to burn his fingers, and dropped it into an ashtray on the table. Then he tore a second match from the pack, and handed it and the pack to Rufus.
“You’re on,” he said.
Rufus put the soda down, then struck the match against the flint. It flamed, and he held it exactly as Valentine had, only moved his hand from side to side like a pendulum, effectively reducing the flame’s head to the size of a pin. Valentine timed him with the minute hand of his watch. Sixty seconds later the match was still quietly burning.
“That’s a keeper,” Valentine said.
Rufus smiled his best aw-shucks smile, then got two glasses from the minibar, and split the soda between them. He was still smiling when they clinked glasses.
&nbs
p; 22
“How long have you been legally blind?” the news-paper reporter asked.
Skip DeMarco leaned back on the leather couch in his penthouse suite in Celebrity’s hotel. He detected a faint Scottish brogue in the reporter’s voice, and put his age at about thirty, with a college education in the states that had softened his vowels. DeMarco had been blind for as long as he could remember, his condition a hereditary one, not that he was going to tell this son-of-a-bitch that.
There was a glass coffee table with sharp edges in front of the couch, and he leaned forward and found the tall glass of ice water that had been placed there for him. He raised it to his lips and enjoyed its coldness against his dry throat. In the next room, he could faintly hear his uncle George, whom everyone called the Tuna, on the phone, cursing up a storm at hotel management. Back home, if someone had robbed his uncle in broad daylight, they’d end up dead in a garbage can by sundown. But Las Vegas wasn’t home, and his uncle was having a hard time getting anyone to help him. He put his drink down, then raised his hands and held his hands approximately three feet apart.
“This long,” he told the reporter. “Which paper did you say you were from?”
He heard the reporter’s intake of breath. He had put him on the defensive. Good.
“I’m a stringer for the International Herald Tribune,” the reporter said.
“I thought they went out of business.”
He heard the reporter shift in his chair. It was made of wood, and it’s feet moved slightly every time the reporter did.
“It’s still published in Europe and the Far East,” the reporter said.
DeMarco stared straight ahead. He knew where the reporter was sitting, but had decided not to gaze in his direction, further putting him on the defensive.
“Do you consider your blindness a handicap or an asset when you play poker?” the reporter asked him.
“An asset,” DeMarco said.
“Do you feel your opponents play you differently, knowing you’re blind?”
“Differently how?”